Young Phillip Maddison Read online

  They had tiny little lodgings near the front, with a fire in the smallest grate, curved like a shell and half way up the wall. A kettle steamed on the side. After tea he went to bed, sleeping on a couch in Mother’s room. In the middle of the night he awakened, after a dream in which he had been trying to claw himself out of a grave, and on awakening, the unfamiliar dark room appeared to be the grave.

  Hetty found him standing up in his nightshirt, running with perspiration, and trying to speak in a choked voice. She soothed him when he got back to bed, promising to leave the candle alight. After he had cried, he felt better, and gave her a goodnight kiss; and the effects of six weeks in the fever hospital and convalescent home began to recede, and he felt suddenly happy.

  They went for walks on the front, and to a concert, where a fat man sang I’m afraid to go home in the dark, rather on the lines of the Merry Minstrels on Hayling Island; but this lot was not in holiday mood like the Minstrels. There were only about twenty people in the audience, and it was raining on the windows.

  At night in the little room, with the small fire glowing, he and Mother played Ludo, and whenever he or she turned up the Prince of Wales feathers on the dice, Phillip cried, imitating Cranmer, “Fevvers!” and they laughed until their sides ached.

  “Fevvers again! Fevvers!”

  It was the funniest word, and Ludo was the best game he had ever played, he and Mother together in the tiny old-fashioned room over a shop in Old Brighton, where the cobbled street was so narrow that only one horse and cart could proceed at a time. It really was a wonderful week, thought Phillip, when at last they were home again.

  Chapter 15

  THE PALADIN

  “SO you’re going to the Crystal Palace, are ye, m’boy?” said Thomas Turney to Phillip, early one Saturday afternoon towards the end of March. “Well, that is an interesting place. I remember my mother taking me to see it soon after it was opened by the Old Queen. M’brother Fred came, too, and a sister—let me see, was it you, Marian?”

  “You know it was, Tom,” replied Great-Aunt Marian, who had left her apartments at Greenwich to keep house for Gran’pa while Grannie was away for an operation. “Do you not recall that we saw the Duke of Wellington, and heard him telling another gentleman that the way to clear the flocks of sparrows living under the glass was to use sparrowhawks? It has always remained in my memory as an example of a clear and practical mind. O, I did so admire the Duke! And he gave me a glance as we passed! Only at a distance, of course, you understand, Phillip,” said Great-aunt Marian, “for we were very ordinary folk.”

  Phillip liked Great-aunt Marian. She did not seem like a real aunt, like Aunt Belle, Aunt Viccy, or Aunt Dora, although she was ever so much older. Great-aunt Marian was very alert and upright, she had a nice clear voice and said things direct, she never told you how you should behave, like the Aunts who were Father’s sisters.

  He had gone next-door, in uniform, to tell them of the Great Review of all London’s Boy Scouts that afternoon in the grounds of the Crystal Palace.

  “And there is a mock battle after the review, you know!”

  “Fancy that!” said Gran’pa. “Well, the Crystal Palace has seen some rare occasions, m’boy. Once I saw Blondin, the Swiss, walking on a tight wire stretched between the two water-towers. Half way across he stopped to cook and eat an omelette, he-he-he! He was three hundred feet above the ground.”

  “Did he fall, Gramps?”

  “No, fortunately for him! He would have gone through the glass if he had, and dropped among the stuffed animals and statues down below. Blondin was a remarkable man. Your Uncle Charley, when he was in Canada, saw him walk over Niagara Falls, with a hoop around his ankles. But the distance he walked then would be less, I fancy, than between the two towers at the Crystal Palace. They must be over a quarter of a mile apart.”

  “I would like to have a sparrowhawk, Gran’pa, to train it to catch spadgers. But I would have to keep it well away from Timmy Rat. Although kestrels go after mice and rats, rather than sparrowhawks. I suppose Sparhawk Street, where the Firm is, came from sparrowhawks?”

  “Yes, Phillip,” replied Thomas Turney, surprised and pleased at his grandson’s reference. “It’s a corruption. There were trees in High Holborn not so long ago, and what the Cockney calls ‘Spar’r’awk’ probably nested in them, or on the roofs of houses. D’ye know, when m’Father was a boy, rooks used to nest in the trees of what is now called Trafalgar Square? They called it Porrige Island in those days, after the mud, he-he-he! That was before Nelson sunk Boney’s fleet. You may be interested to know that my Father’s father, that is your great-great-grandfather, Phillip—are ye listening, hey?—I said my Father’s father was a Navy man then, and commanded a frigate. How would you like to be a sailor when you grow up, eh?”

  “Not very much, Gran’pa. I am very easily sea-sick.”

  “Well, so was Nelson, Phillip.”

  “All the same, I wouldn’t mind being a fisherman. I could hold the rope on shore, like one man does at Hayling Island. I think I might like to be a farmer, too.”

  “Well, farming’s done for in England, Phillip. It’s a thing of the past. You can’t put back the clock, m’boy. Your other grandfather tried, you know, and more harm than good came of it—you can’t go against the times, you know.”

  “Well, I think I’d better be going now, Gran’pa. I hope Grannie will soon be better. Goodbye, Aunt Marian.” He shook hands with both, and left the room: but came back to say, “I hope there is a balloon race from the Crystal Palace this afternoon! I would like to see one close to. Goodbye once more.”

  *

  It was a fine clear day, with an abatement of the east winds which had been drying the streets of the soddenness of winter. Phillip had told his men on no account to be late on parade, for the honour of the Patrol. All must bring their own sausages: this was for Ching’s benefit, as Ching was a bit of a cadger. Boots must be polished, Mr. Prout had warned them, faces and hands clean, poles scrubbed, hair cut, neckerchiefs washed—for the honour of the Troop.

  The Bloodhounds set off to time, following the Greyhounds at an interval of about two hundred yards. They arrived in time, to see the other patrols marching to Headquarters.

  Mr. Purley-Prout did not make his pi-jaw so long this time. He said that it was on the cards that Lt.-General Sir Robert Baden-Powell—which he told them should be pronounced Barden-Pole—might be present, and so the North West Kents must shine as the best troop there. Phillip had even cleaned his teeth after his dinner, borrowing some of Father’s precipitated chalk from the box hidden behind the hot-water boiler.

  *

  He long remembered the excitement of waiting, with the rest of the Troop, at Perry Vale Fire Station, and seeing what looked like an endless column of Scouts, some with drums and fifes and bugles, passing up the cobbled road towards the hill on which stood, unseen as yet behind shops and trees, the building he had never been so close to before—the Crystal Palace.

  There were many sorts of people beside the Scouts. There were men of the Legion of Frontiersmen, all looking like Buffalo Bill; Boys Brigade companies with pill-boxes on one side of their heads; cadets in khaki; and boy sailors pulling a waggon by two long ropes. All sorts of motorcars banged and honked past as they joined the procession through Sydenham and West Hill, cameras going all along the route; people standing on the pavement, dogs barking, aproned shop-keepers, shop-walkers in frock coats, girl assistants with white faces and black dresses looking through windows, hundreds of small boys running alongside, bands playing—and at last the huge towering mass of grey scaly glass rising with cold glitter high into the sky above them—through the iron gates—and there was Father in the crowd, standing by the Sunbeam, smiling at him.

  Phillip felt proud that he was patrol leader of the Bloodhounds, the first patrol in the district to be formed.

  Inside, the place was noisy with shuffling feet, whistles, orders, and shouted commands. At last they were all formed u
p in the Centre Transept, and were addressed by an old man that Mr. Purley-Prout said was Sir John Campbell, whom they saluted while the band played God Save the King.

  Then the great moment: out into the grounds, through the North Tower Garden, and down to the Balloon Ground to divide for the Sham Fight. The Troop, with the Bereshill, Fordesmill, and St. Anselm’s Troops, were, under Mr. Purley-Prout, Phillip heard with pride, to form the main attack.

  *

  What were the scoutmasters arguing over, for so long? Phillip felt quite cold with the long wait.

  At last Mr. Purley-Prout came to them, and said hurriedly,

  “Peter, I want you to take your Greyhounds and be the extreme right wing of our outflanking movement against the main body. Phillip, go with Peter. I am putting Peter in charge of the right flank force. What you have to do is to move, unseen by the enemy, to beyond their extreme left wing, and encircle it. Get behind them, without them seeing you. Meanwhile, the Lions and the Kangaroos will do the same thing on the left flank, at the other end. Thus you will turn both flanks of the enemy’s position at the same time. When you are behind them, capture their headquarters flag, and so end the fight! This is an occasion to show everyone what the North West Kents can do! I will remain here, with the main body, and when I see through my binoculars that you have got round the flanks, we will charge forward, and so create a diversion. The enemy will think this is the main attack; and while repelling it, will not realise that their flanks are being turned and their flag taken! We must hurry.”

  He looked at his watch. “The time-limit is almost up! There had been far too much jawing and crabbing of my plan of attack. Now to your positions! At the double!”

  “Follow me,” said Peter Wallace.

  Phillip did not feel enthusiastic, having to be under Peter. After all, the Bloodhounds were before the Greyhounds. He decided to attack in his own way, once he had lost Peter.

  There were a number of old cracked statues lying about the place. Brambles grew among the shrubs. The place looked a bit neglected, he thought. They passed some fountains without water in their rims. An old boot lay in one. Nearby, among some nettles, was part of a concrete alligator, or prehistoric monster. This gave Phillip an idea. In the main building, he told Peter, were some imitation stuffed prehistoric beasts: why not get inside one, and move slowly towards the flag they were going to capture? Perhaps they could get some workmen to carry it, while one of them hid inside?

  “Don’t talk daft,” said Peter Wallace.

  He led them what seemed to be miles and miles round the flank, so that the Sham Fight was over before they could even start to move towards the Terrace where the rival flags were.

  They went back, hearing the Umpire’s bugle, and saw that Mr. Purley-Prout was arguing with the scoutmaster of the 1st Fordesmill troop, on the Terrace.

  “My lads are cold, waiting here for nothing to happen, let me tell you! Your plan was only for the glorification of your own so-called North West Kent Troop, that was obvious from the start!”

  “Have you ever heard of the team-spirit, sir?” said Mr. Purley-Prout.

  “We’ve all heard about you, if that is what you mean,” retorted the other.

  “Hardly the remark of a true Scout, rather that of a glorified Tenderfoot,” said Mr. Purley-Prout. “In future kindly keep your distance, if you cannot exercise the art of manners.”

  “I shall and all, don’t you fret! We all know what you are!”

  “Be careful! I warn you that any slanderous statement will instantly be challenged in the proper Court!”

  “Faugh!” ejaculated the Scoutmaster of the 1st Fordesmills, as he turned his back on Mr. Purley-Prout.

  “The trouble with you is that you are not a gentleman,” Mr. Purley-Prout called after him.

  Phillip saw that Mr. Purley-Prout was white under his tan.

  “Faugh!” said the 1st Fordesmills scoutmaster again.

  Phillip saw Mr. Purley-Prout’s nostrils open wide as he breathed.

  “Fall in, the North West Kent Troop! Let us ignore such evidences of bad-breeding and ignorance.”

  They marched to the lake, where they were allowed to light camp fires. While scouts of the other patrols went off to look for firewood, Phillip squatted on his heels to make his patrol’s fire of wood which he, Cranmer, and Desmond had brought in their haversacks. Seeing their store beside the fire, Mr. Purley-Prout immediately suggested that Phillip should hand over some of his sticks for use by the Lions and Kangaroos.

  “But we brought it with us, Mr. Prout!” he protested.

  “The Scout’s code is based on service, which means unselfishness, Phillip. You should be glad of this opportunity to help others. To be selfish, to think only of yourself, is to reveal the spirit of a tenderfoot.”

  “I am the senior-est scout here, Mr. Prout, and if I am a tenderfoot, at least I did think of bringing wood for my patrol, which is more than the other patrol leaders did.”

  “Argument with your Scoutmaster is hardly good manners, Phillip, and such constitutes the mark of a tenderfoot,” said Mr. Purley-Prout, as he bent down to take a double handful of the wood. He walked off with it, distributing a few sticks each to the Lions and Kangaroos.

  Peter Wallace had brought his patrol’s wood, too, but while Mr. Purley-Prout had been talking to Phillip, Peter hid his spare sticks by sitting on them until Mr. Purley-Prout had gone.

  “It’s not fair,” said Phillip, “to pinch our wood! Any fool knows that with a mob like this about, it’s hopeless to look for firewood. Faugh!”

  *

  Twilight blurred the outlines of the tiers and terraces of cold grey glass: trees began to look black against the sky; points of fire flickered all around and across the lake, where hundreds of boys squatted with billy-can, mess-tin, fitted knife and fork, and folding frying pan. From out of the vast glassy shell, lit in patches with yellow lights within, a rumbling sound came, seeming to quiver the windless skin of the water of the lake; the very ground seemed to be trembling. What could it be? Was it only his fancy? Phillip asked Desmond if he could hear anything. Desmond, with whom Phillip had become intimate, after several visits to his mother’s flat for tea, said he thought he could.

  “It is the Willis organ, playing the Hallelujah chorus, with all stops out,” exclaimed Mr. Purley-Prout, standing, a Greek-god-like figure, hat brim over eyes, on the edge of the lake. “This is a solemn moment,” he added.

  Phillip was thinking that there would not be enough wood to fry his sausages nice and brown outside, as he liked them, when Cranmer suddenly appeared, dragging a long dry branch.

  “I half-inched it from a Kestrel, one’v old Whazzisname’s lot what gave Mr. Prart some of’s lip,” said Cranmer.

  “Good for you!” cried Phillip. “We’ll have a decent fire after all!”

  When they had smashed it up, and the fire was blazing brightly, with tea and potatoes and sausages inside him, Phillip joined in the troop sing-song, while the lower night was ringed with fire, the stars shone above in the cold air, and the surface of the lake was a reflection of the mingled lights of earth and sky as it carried the singing voices of a thousand boys.

  At last, like all good things, it came to an end. The fires went out, the singing ceased. Bugles sounded, mysterious in the night. Phillip thought of Gran’pa, years ago, just before Uncle Hugh and Uncle Sidney went off to the Boer War, reading from Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth. It was rather like it, all the fires, and now the bugles.

  “Fall in, the North Western Troop!”

  It was half past eight. This time the Troop was near the head of the procession, and marched to the music of the band. Phillip put his wide-awake strap under his chin, like Mr. Purley-Prout did, to give him a feeling of being strong and resolute with the band playing so near. He stuck out his chin, so that people standing on the pavements in the lights of the Saturday evening shops might take him at his own valuation: the first to form a patrol in the district.

  *r />
  Phillip did so hope that Father would give his permission to go to camp at Easter that year. Mr. Purley-Prout promised to come and see Mr. Maddison about it. He had managed to buy a real tent after all. For seven shillings and sixpence a grey canvas bivouac, six feet long and six feet wide, had been ordered from Murrage’s. It had been used during the Boer War: broad black arrows stamped on it in one corner showed it had been Government property.

  When it arrived by Carter Paterson, in great excitement Phillip put it up on the lawn, and sat in it for a while in silent wonder; then he lay down on the wrinkled rubber groundsheet, and hoped for rain. The canvas had a funny musty smell, which he thought must come from the troopships in which the army had returned.

  The half yearly payment of the scholarship grant into his Post Office Savings Account had enabled him to buy the tent, as well as a new Swift bicycle, with three-speed gear, on easy payments, from Wetherly’s opposite the Fire Station. It was black, lined out in gold. He kept it oiled and clean, like the Sunbeam, which stood on one side of the downstairs lavatory, while the Swift stood on the other.

  “Oh, if only Father would give his permission for me to go camping at Easter!”

  Mr. Purley-Prout called one evening, when Phillip was in bed. Phillip put his ear to the floor of his bedroom, hoping to hear what was said down below in the sitting room; but all he heard was the long murmuring of Mr. Purley-Prout’s tenor voice, followed at intervals by Father’s deeper rumbling, which sounded through the floor like grumbling, but was not, Mother had often said. “When Father speaks in the kitchen at breakfast, your grandfather in the bathroom hears the rumbling of his voice, and mistakes it for grumbling, dear,” she had said many times. Was Father’s voice rumbling now, or grumbling? Pray that it was not grumbling before Mr. Purley-Prout.